


Reckless stupidity

by Verdin, Viktorye (orphan_account)



Category: Final Fantasy X
Genre: Auron taking things too serious, Jecht not so much, M/M, Might contain traces of humor, Or sad reality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-04-07 00:57:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14069412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verdin/pseuds/Verdin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Viktorye
Summary: It all started when Vic said, and I quote,“Unrelated, but I think about Auron's jug and how perhaps it's an official piece of gear from the temple, that's only to be used in emergency situations or as a bartering tool.... I think about Jecht pressuring Auron into drinking some with him and Auron gets drunk for the first time ever…”Three guys on a pilgrimage, and between two of them, there's not a lot of love. Emotions fueled by alcohol run high, and Jecht and Auron get themselves in quite a mess. Even though it might have been a bit of Braska's fault, really.





	1. Bath

"This is meant for painful situations, when relief is needed!" - "Well, you sure could need some relief . That stick up your butt's gotta hurt. C'mon, bro, give it a try."  
"I won't do such a stupid thing!"  
"Auron!"  
"Lord Braska, this is idiotic."  
"I'll have some, hand it here..."  
"Lord Braska...!”  
"Denying the boss? That's a wholly new side to you, milksop!"  
"If you think I'll partake in your buffoonery--!"  
"This isn't half bad, you know," Braska swipes his sleeve over his mouth. "It's a bit milky. Not at all what I would have expected."  
"You know, when my wife was preggers--" Jecht notices the slightly shocked expression in both of faces, only causing him to drag on the pause longer. Taking the bottle from Braska and giving in a try. Not bad indeed. "--she really had a thing for chocolate milk, and I mixed the stuff with rum. Took a liking to milky booze then."

Auron is mulling over and over, wondering what kind of woman would settle for such a man. He's interrupted by the bottle landing in his lap, enough to make him jump, and his lip curls into a scowl. "Auron," Braska's voice is warm, but tired, "have some, won't you?"  
"Lord Braska, it..."  
"It is my wish, that you join us." Braska is so formal that it elicits a chuckle from the warrior monk.  
"Drink up, boy. You don't have to end up like me." More of Jecht's white teeth, pearl-like, or shark-like, and a strange tone to his voice that Auron maybe is just imagining. This man hasn't displayed an ounce of introspection until now.

The comment is truly perplexing, and Auron feels a pang of some unfamiliar emotion in his gut, if only for a moment. "Yevon forbid," he jeers, before anxiously uncorking the jug and bringing it to his nose, taking a cursory sniff. His eyes fall on Braska, who's wearing an annoyingly gentle smile. Here goes nothing. The nog is more potent going down than he counted on, and the taste is something between almond milk and brass. Auron swallows a generous mouthful before passing the jug back to Braska. "Happy?"  
“Sometimes. Might be happier after another round or two. And you, boy? Wasn't that bad, now was it? Brings some hair to you chest.“ A tan hand stretches out to take the bottle from Braska as soon as he has taken another swig.

"Woof," Braska huffs, leaning back on his elbows. His cheeks are flushed red. "Boy? Stop calling me that," Auron complains, eyes narrowing as the jug makes its way to him once again. He goes for broke, swallowing as much as he can before the copper liquid runs from the corners of his mouth. "If this is what you need to feel happiness, then I feel sorry for you."  
“And what do you need for happiness? Let me guess, duty is somewhere high up on that list.“ It doesn't sound as mean-spirited as Auron expects.  
Auron can't help but smirk. His insides are beginning to feel hot and prickly. "I take pride in my duties. In fact I think there's no greater satisfaction." He considers the bottle for a moment before passing it back to Jecht. "You should try it some time. You might like it, old man."  
"No greater satisfaction? Seriously? Shit, son, I can tell you two from the top of my head, " Another swig. "And those aren't easy ones, before you think that. Might even fall in the realm of duty in a way. Just not the kind you die from." Only now Jecht takes his time to actually smell the liquid he's been drinking.Pours a bit of it into the hollow of his hand to see, to explore color and texture.  
"Oh, spare me your pornographic notions," Auron hiccups curtly into his elbow, stealing back the jug and whirling the liquid around and around. He won't admit that he rather likes the taste, and the numbness dulling his senses. Another mouthful or two and the jug is half full. "But then..." his voice trails off, and his gaze is downcast, "things are different in Zanarkand, aren't they...?"  
"Only one of them is pornographic. And I'll never understand why you're so scared of normal bodily functions. Your life is full of intestines and still you're afraid of a little puss. Even old Braska here ain't, and he's practically a saint." Jecht blinks. The liquid the boy brought from the temple seems stronger than expected.

The aforementioned summoner is flat on his back, snoring peacefully as the bonfire warms his face. Lightweight. "I am not scared. It's a part of our training, in the temple," Auron leans back, his words slurring. "We learn to control those urges. Suppress them. Yes, even the most natural of them... until the point of..." he gives Jecht a knowing look, "...great discomfort."  
Jecht always seemed a man to speak big questions with ease, and it is the same this time. He leans forward. Takes a good look at the boy, brows raised, face half hidden by his wild hair. Finally puts his thoughts into words. Asks. "Why?"  
"To harden one's heart and mind. We endure such tortures to become stronger. Surely you understand that," It's becoming difficult to put together a coherent sentence. "However," Auron begins after a long pause, "...it has made it difficult to... er... evacuate at will. So to speak." His cheeks flush red, and he wishes Jecht wouldn't stare so aggressively.

"Shit, son." No ridicule, just disbelief and as much pity as the old drunkard is able to. He sits closer to the young warrior-mainly-monk now, his head in his hands, slightly tilted. "You mean you can't..." One eye closes, "...come? Can't jack off? Rub your palm tree? Please the pole? Or did they break you so much that it won't even work if you're with another?"

On any other day, Auron would have fallen straight backwards from the litany of profane suggestions pouring from the Zanarkander's mouth. Today he stifles a laugh in his palm. "That is not at all what I was implying, you jackass. Learn some restraint, will you?" He doesn't take any comfort in the curious way Jecht is studying him, and he screws his face into a grimace before adding, "...my faculties are in working order, I assure you. Not that you need to know."  
"Glad to hear that, bro. But what you mean by willful evacuations then? First thing I thought of was..." His eyes wander to the sky while he looks for an adequate word, "... bowel movements, but that's probably not it either, eh?"

"...Ahem." Auron hopes that the tone of his voice affirms Jecht's suspicions, without his having to say it out loud. "The longest I've gone without urinating was three and a half days, on a training mission through the Djose badlands." "...that probably sounds ridiculous, now that I say it out loud."  
The old guy nods. "Impressive. Bladder muscles of steel. You just drank really little then? Sparse rations and all?"  
"Tha's right. Sometimes only rainwater. Our monastic life was not as sedentary as one might think." He takes another drink, and another, until his stomach churns and he places the jug out of reach. "Wha'bout you? You've ov-biously," he really trips over this word for a moment, "got some technique to stay so fit."

Jecht reaches for the round thing, and years of experience pay off. The steal is effortless. "Eight to ten hours of training a day. Hard nights. Running, mostly from things, sometimes even with pants on. Monastic is something before big games, and something every-fucking-one of us tiptoed away from. Three days without pissing. Boy. Can't be healthy."  
"Sounds like hell," Auron laughs before lying on his back, tucking his sore arms behind his head. The stars are out in full glory tonight, some almost too bright to gaze at for long. "You still had time f'your wife and your boy after all that training. I s'pose I admire you for that."

A long moment of tense silence, tangible through the warm fog of sacred booze before Jecht laughs roughly. "You'll be glad to hear you still don't have to. Admire and shit I mean."  
"Hmh," the young monk chuckles. "I certainly didn't spare you any grace before. Why would I now, if I didn't think you deserve it?" Auron sits quietly for what seems like a long time, watching the slow breathing of their charge, his gaze then falling on the ever-tensed muscles of the man beside him, pulsing as he shifts his weight. "I want to apologize to you."  
"Nah. Don't. You'll be sorry for it in the morning." Jecht's fingers are drumming a little rhythm on the bottle's hard surface. "Should be me who's apologizing. Not to you, iron-crap, but to her and the bloody kid. Dunno why she stayed."

Auron's ears prick at this sudden emotional emission. He of all people wouldn't miss a fireside Jecht confessional for the world. He prompts him with a quiet, "Perhaps she loves you."  
"Heh. Right. Sure she did, for a few nights. After that... oh well, can't blame her. Would have been gone like the wind if I hadn't knocked her up." He drinks to wash away this truth. "Wants a dad instead of just money. Still don't get why she thought I'd be good material for that. Not like I didn't try, you know? Believe or fucking don't. But I'm just not..." A slow shrug with wide shoulders.

Auron almost can't believe he's feeling pity for the broken heart beside him, but the sight of him is pitiful indeed. Wasn't getting drunk was supposed to be fun? "Jecht..." he scratches at the bend of his jaw, feeling a bit awkward. He wasn't exactly the priestly, comforting type. "I know you don't care to hear what I have to say," he sighs, and his voice is muted slightly, "so I won't tell you what I think. But I know that boy means more to you than anything. He's all you ever talk about. Aside from women, and drink, that is."  
"Try me, rock poop. Maybe I'm gonna listen. If you're good, I'll pretend I forgot about your excavation problems come sunrise. Fair?" The wide, roguish grin is back.

He winces at the new nickname. It's not one of Jecht's best. "The heretic Jecht is going to listen to me? Praise be to Yevon," he teases, pressing his clasped fist to his lips in a mock gesture. "You're one of the most offensive, crass individuals I've ever had the displeasure of traveling with. You smell, you don't follow the precepts, you make a mockery of our customs, and shame my lord and me on a daily basis." Auron can hardly keep from laughing. "Despite this, I like you. And I trust you with my life. Perhaps you've misjudged yourself."

"I love you too, bro.“ Suddenly Auron finds himself in a rather unexpected and rather strong hug.

Auron starts at first, but melts into the embrace, so forgone that he doesn't mind Jecht's arms wrapped tightly about his shoulders. He feels his own hands rise to cup the bare shoulder blades, weakly at first, unsure. It's a sort of contact he hasn't felt in a long time, and he hungrily takes it in, suddenly tightening his grip and pulling Jecht's body close, saying nothing, letting his cheek rest against the knotted muscle of the tanned shoulder. He's warm.  
Jecht didn't expect that kind of response, but now that it's there, he's willing to work with it, and he holds the boy. The body under the robes feels tight, and a strange mix of warmths rises in him, that of a hug he gave to little Tidus way too rarely and that slightly tinged with craving for the skin under those holy robes. He shoos away the thought. Boy is way too uptight to even think about such things, and he won't fuck up this time. And who knows when he last took a dump? A little chuckle rises in him, and he lets his callused hand run over Auron's back.

The young man almost nods off. His forehead sinks into the crook of Jecht's neck, and a warm chill prickles down his face when the bend of the bearded jaw makes brief contact. He had hated this man not a few hours prior, and now he sits collapsed in his arms quite pathetically. But Auron is too tired to care. "Please, don't laugh at me," his voice is just a tiny droplet of sound. He enjoys the feeling of that hand swiping down his back, and he, subtlety as he can, arches into it.  
“Won't. Promise.“ His gruff voice surprisingly low and gentle. “Gotta relax sometimes, even you.“ Jecht shifts his position, sits on his knees in front of the boy now, drags him even closer. The thoughts of Tidus are gone, and his fingers draw along the curve of his shoulder blades beneath the muscle before he returns to the innocent, friendly caresses, like he's petting a big cat.

"You have a kind heart," Auron says plainly after a moment of quietude between them. He savors the touch, tightening his grip until a low whining sound from his stomach interrupts the silence. "I think I gotta......."  
"Yeah. Think so too." People making sacrifices of second-hand drink is something Jecht is very much used to, and so he reacts before he even finishes his sentence, dragging the boy upward and forward and away from fire and the holy guy. He may mess up his own stuff, but not the camp,  
"Eurrp--" Auron manages to make an undignified dash for a nearby mulberry bush, with Jecht hoisting him up by the belt, squeezing his eyes shut against the stinging tears that come when he retches. Braska makes a small sound from his place by the fire, though it goes unnoticed. "I am never doing this again..." the boy spits between labored breaths, looking forlornly at the mess that has somehow spilled down his front. Great.

"Sure thing. One nobody anywhere ever said, especially not me. " Jecht grins and helps the boy to sit up. "You gonna have some water now and get rid of your shirt. I'll take care of that. Got it?" Inside Jechts thanks the boy's innocent stomach for ruining the little moment they had. Would probably have been a bigger mess than what's on the ground now.

Auron grumbles as he sits in a heap, contorting his arms every which-way in order to wriggle free from the tight, soiled bodice. Now free of his shirt, he looks this way and that. Water? Oh, right. They're near the Moonflow. He doubts he can make it to the riverbank unassisted, and looks up at Jecht with a rather pathetic expression. "I don't suppose..."  
"That I won't force you to train drinking like a man? Right you are." The old drunkard helps him up, a strong arm around his chest, under his shoulders then. Warm. Waits for a moment so Auron can focus on the new position. "Let's get you nice and clean again." He manages to grab the shirt with his naked toes, brings it up to his hand balancing on one leg for a moment. He might not be the pinnacle of laziness Auron thought he was when he did that during their travels, but a man used to having his hands full.

He lets out an uncharacteristically loud laugh. "You're like a monkey," Auron remarks as he stumbles into Jecht once, twice, three times before finally finding his footing. He suddenly bends over to pry off his boots, clutching at the waist of the older man's shorts for balance. Feeling hot, he frees himself from his red vestments and his belt, now standing in bare feet, only his trousers remaining. Standing up seems to have quickened the alcohol's effectiveness. "I fancy a swim," he giggles, clumsy hands working at the button of his pants.  
"Step in slow. Will be there in a minute.“ He won't keep the boy from something to sober him up a bit, and he never minded a little skinnydipping anyway. He soaks the tainted fabric, rubs it against one of the stones on the riverbank to get rid of the worst traces of their dinner.

He strips down to the lowest form of his garments, a dark swath of fabric wrapped between his legs and tied together thinly about the hips. A chill breeze picks up and he revels in the coolness of the night, before splashing clumsily into the water, upsetting the few resting families of pyreflies which twist and float away to more out-of-reach lilies. "You dun have to do that," he says as he watches Jecht work away the stains against a rock, "but thanks!"  
"Can't be seen with a man who can't hold his liquor," he chuckles. A man. Maybe the first time he called Auron that. It seems easier now that he is reduced to a hu-man instead of a boy with a stick up his arse. "Splash some water on your chest before you dive in to get used to the cold, will ya?"  
"It ain't too cold, son," Auron's best Jecht impression leaves a lot to be desired. He wades out further into the muck and barks sharply when his feet fall out from under him, as the shallow mire suddenly gives way to deep water. Auron, admittedly, is not the best at swimming. He struggles with a patch of lily pads before dragging himself back into the shallows, completely soaked, laughing dumbly.

Jecht holds the fabric against the night sky. Holds it against his nose. Not as good as new, but as good as before. None of them exactly smells like roses these days, not even the holy guy, even though he tries his best. That's what days on the road do to you. He gets up and just lets black and orange drop from his hips. Commando underneath, he likes his freedom, and he stretches luxuriously. Being so close to be finally submerged again, to be free from the weight of this world for a while, makes his heart beat a little faster. Getting nostalgic, old man?

The water is relieving aches that the young man didn't know he had. Knees are light. Muscles uncoiled. Everything, every sensation is new and he feels very unusual. Aggressive, and tactless. He looks shoreward and glimpses the tightly muscled body, illuminated by the caches of pyrelights floating on the breeze. Jecht looks weather beaten, like the hull of an old steel ship, barnacles and all. His fingertips twitch to know the feeling of that texture, before his eyes flick closed. "Coming in, or what?"  
And come in he does, being reasonable enough to not just jump in head over heels, even though he itches to do . Somehow, he moves quicker in the water than on land, a merman in his natural habitat, and as soon as the water reaches his midriff, he dives. Disappears, and stays gone for a whole while. He's home, under the waves, and the water feels lovely, soft and alive like a lover's skin, and he's grinning madly as he tosses and turns under the surface, scares away a fish as long and massive as his leg. He's empty inside, pleasantly so, knows this has been long overdue, and relishes the feeling. Bumps against Auron in the end. Wraps his arms around him, his chest against the boy's back as he rises. Feels him tense up, ready for a fight, always ready. "Let go," Jecht whispers., "I got you," and he pulls him back, making the boy float.

Auron is as at home in the water as a housecat. Being dragged backward through the darkness cuts through his nerves, and his mind processes the panic in bursts, but Jecht's gentleness eases him up, until they push through the waves as gracefully as three-hundred pounds of amalgam guardian can. He feels something wriggle past his feet, and he jerks his body backward, knocking his head against the older man's jaw, instinctively clasping at Jecht's wrists for balance. He's afraid, as much as he hates to admit it. "Don't let go --!" he cries as he struggles, feeling a nibble on his leg.  
"Won't." Heated skin and wet hair, and suddenly Auron is cradled in Jecht's arms, weightless and safe, and the grin above him is as bright and white as the sickle in the sky. "Close your eyes."  
"Uh..." As with most things, he'll give it his best effort. He finds a rhythm kicking his legs back and forth through the placid water, and leans into the muscled breast behind him, letting that foreign heartbeat lull him to peace. "Alright, I will." The sunken, coffee brown eyes close in turn. He savors the sound of Jecht's breath humming through his chest.

Jecht starts moving, or maybe it's the stream around them moving, and slowly, very slowly, the weight, the tension in his muscles sinks down in his body like a sheet of paper on water, floating first, but soaking then and slowly going under. Auron can feel how it sinks even further down, leaving flesh and bone, being washed away with the flow of the water. The other man watches him with heavy-lidded eyes, focused on his own breathing, his calm heartbeat, trying to share some of this, some of what the waters taught him, with the boy that learned from stone and steel. Watches the young face, so pretty when it's not distorted in rage.

The young warrior's downturned face is smooth, eyelashes long and hiding the shy doe-eyes that open to glance upward at the wolfen muzzle, the brazen set jaw, the cartilaginous point of this snarling nose. All things wild encompass him, even in this moment of silence. These arms that surround him are muscles used for wreaking havoc, for pleasuring itself, for running rampant. He finds disquiet in the thought that his own two arms act only, always, in the servitude of someone else. He can't know what sort of thoughts are running through Jecht's mind, but a burgeoning feeling of failure shakes Auron to the core, and he hides his face in shame.  
“What's up, mh?“ Jecht bows down his head as he feels the burly body tense again, brushes his lips against the forehead, up where the black hair starts. It feels right to do that in this moment, this little caress for a brave, sad boy, and he lingers there for a moment longer.

That small sound, the light touch of lips, pushes his heart into his throat, and Auron's fingers dig into the inner corners of his eyes only to prolong the inevitable. His eyebrows buckle at the center. For the first time, his weakness is laid bare. It starts and ends with one choke, one noise, worlds apart from his normal reticence. One unwieldy gasp for air, and both he and Jecht know, he's crying. Hug me. Embrace me. Please. He buries his face into his hands. I'm scared and so alone. I don't know what I'm doing. Please, touch me. Anything.

He drags the boy closer, holds him like he would a child, Auron's head against his chest. Continues the gentle movements through the water. “Arms around me,“ a friendly command. Not what he expected, but somehow, what the boy needs even more. Relaxation comes in all forms.  
The muscled arms encircle the older man's body, holding too tightly around. Auron's face presses in to taut, tattooed flesh, his nose just skimming the water's surface, mouth submerged and blowing pitiful bubbles upward. He can't think of a single thing to say that won't damage his stout-hearted reputation more than it has been already. A moment of clarity comes at once, but is suddenly dulled by that overwhelming need to be held. Pathetic fucking idiot. "If you tell anyone..."  
"Seen bigger guys than you break down and cry. Can't keep that face up forever, and that's okay."  
Jecht seems content with just holding him, being the only stable thing in a world being washed away.  
"It isn't. It isn't okay. I'm supposed to be better than this," he growls. Still, he doesn't struggle against the arms around him. "I'm supposed to be strong, but all I feel is weakness and fear."

It feels bit like Jecht's dancing with him to a silent waltz played by the waves, dragging him into the water deeper and deeper, keeping his head afloat. "Those who are not afraid, Auron," he uses the name for a time he can count on both of his hands, "are either fools or madmen or dead. Good thing you ain't one of those." Even he, the mighty Jecht, is none of them, even though he likes playing pretend. The fool is a role that suits him well, and as long as the others are laughing, they... His head bows down, places another kiss upon the boy's brow, tasting salt, and he knows it isn't this river.

An electric wave pulses through him at the touch. A thousand disjointed thoughts flick through his mind all at once. Auron isn't sure of anything anymore. His body feels transparent, and his swollen, blood red heart thumps, visible from space. "I'm drunk," he says quietly, taking hold of Jecht's shoulders, before drawing his wet face closer to the older man. "This ...doesn't mean anything..." Dark eyes gaze hungrily at the lips that are creased with a permanent smirk. He'll kiss them just to hide that annoying expression...  
"I know." The words against his chapped lips, and then someone kisses another one, and it would take a lawyer to tell who started, who is guilty, and Jecht dives down with him, down below waves where their pulse is a mighty drum, and he becomes his breath, hot and slow and well-measured, and a callused hand gets entangled in black hair as if it was seaweed.

That same black hair is loosed from the tight ribbons holding it in place, and Jecht's hand moves to work out the kink left behind. Auron digs his nails into the rough skin of a strong neck, eyes shut tight, breath suspended in his lungs as the water engulfs them. Is this how it's done? He hardly remembers. One night in the barnyard with a neighborhood girl, not much more than an exploratory survey, nothing to remember or go by, by any means. Auron deepens the kiss rather violently, and the stark white teeth clack together. He feels like he's drowning, but he can't be bothered to do anything about it.  
A gentle bite into the exploring tongue, and Jecht pinches the boy's nose shut. Forces breath into his lungs. Let's him exhale. Returns what's given to him. His lungs are endless caverns, used to worse strain. My rhythm, boy. His embrace grows tighter. Let go. Just let go. Jecht feels Auron's muscles tense as the adrenaline kicks in. Fight or flee or fuck or just fucking give up for once. Give up.  
The fighting instinct takes over. Hooked hands swipe down the barrel chest, catching nipples in their path, running lower and pushing back against the tight abdomen, at the hook of that black shape emblazoned on his skin. Don't smother me. I'm not as weak as that! He kicks and struggles until his exhausted body is flotsam in the surf. Fine. Tell me what to do.

Jecht lets him go. Lets him rise to the surface while he stays between bubbles and churning water. Keeps one hand around Auron's, dark eyes wide, hair a stormcloud around his head. If you want to go, go. Just one tug. It's only by two fingers he holds him now, not more than a gesture. Your decision.

He takes greedy breaths at the break of the water, sobered by the biting wind above. As he bobs up and down he can see the heavy clouds moving swiftly across the sky as the scornful wind picks up. Stay here, alone but secure in the cold, or join the merman in his dark world below. He's certain the form that traces his leg is no fish, he feels the shameful pulsation of lust against his own abdomen, not any less ardent in the water. His hand reaches below the waistband, unsure. He has only ever known to suppress it, even in the waking hours, in the cold and lonely emptiness of the cell. Too many boundaries crossed tonight. Another will make hardly any difference, he reasons as he lets his head dip under the waves to search for the shark below.

The predator is drifting there, soft underbelly turned towards the skies, his sharp eyes closed. He is not one who will be devoured here, any way things go. Being under the wave was always something special for him, something even the others did not understand. It felt like coming home since the first time, when the tide dragged him under when he was a kid, filled his lungs with salt and blessed him. His arms are stretched out, the fingers wide. Water, in the end, is the same, wherever he is, no matter how she tastes on his lips.

Auron struggles to open his eyes under the water. It looks like the smell of bleach, blurry and chemical. He can see the dark form of his companion adrift in the undertow, looking as peaceful as ever. Auron almost doesn't want to disturb him, almost. His hand shoots down into the dark and traces a line down the contour of that face, watching the shapes of the light twist and bend in magic forms. Wordlessly he demands Jecht's attention. I'm cold, and I'm not going to want you for much longer, his eyes speak it all. Quit messing around.  
The large body is a blur, impossibly quick through the liquid, and then Jecht's pressed against him, legs wrapped around Auron's hips, both hands cupping his companion's face. White teeth so very close, then a friendly bite into the apple of the boy's cheek, and then a kiss, hungry and deep and slow. Taste the prey before you tear it apart. Still hard, little one? Still betrayed by your own body? Ain't that bad, you know?"

He squirms against his captor, but this is what he wants, isn't it? Auron tangles his fingers into Jecht's mane, tearing those lips from his face with a forceful yank. He holds that fanged mouth at a distance, regarding it only for a moment, before forcing the head to the side and taking a generous portion of the throat's flesh into his mouth. It is a contest of strength now. Without a doubt, Jecht's current position allows him a certain familiarity with the stiffened flesh pulsing through thin cloth, and at its full glory, it is impressive to say the least. "Shut your fucking mouth, vermin," is the low reply, dripping with arsenical lust.  
Jecht's lips purse in amusement as the tiny bubbles that carry the words tickle his skin. Bucks against Auron, his own cock pulsing, and stretches his neck even more, offering generously, while his hands dig into the muscular back, deep enough to feel the curve of the bone under tense muscle.  
The inevitable gamut of activity just won't do here in the open water. With what limbs he has free, the warrior paddles clumsily forward until they run aground in the soft sand. At least here he can survey the tanned hide properly. Completely nude, Jecht's physique is irresistible and disgusting to him all at once. Perhaps it is what he represents, perhaps it is the sculpted musculature belying the devil-may-care attitude. Auron's got him on his back, the young warrior straddling his thighs, one heavy hand holding the hip bone down with force. The object of his attention wavers up and down as he touches lightly, feeling for the first time. Auron straightens his back and makes himself large, his cock straining at its confines, peaking just over the top of the waistband.

Jecht doesn't object. Folds his hands behind his head, and even with his darn smug grin the young warrior can't be sure if it is his way of showing he couldn't care less about what Auron is going to do, or if he is putting himself in invisible bonds for his new lover, allowing him to take the reins for once. No barnacles on this part of the hull, even though it is slightly crooked and as veiny and somehow as mean as the rest of the vessel, and yet, the skin there is so very soft and hot. A tiny change in the old man's breathing.  
Dichotomous bodies sit perpendicular to each other. The one aground is rough. Dangerous in every atom. In parts, the skin is too tight, and the corners and alleyways of flesh are darker in hue than the rusty front, explorable only to the intrepid. The body aloft is milk white and soft. Everything about him is sturdy, the round white thighs, the strong breast, two arms packed tight with honed strength. His free hand works the fabric loose from his hips, and yet another strong, round form reveals itself. It is shades darker than the rest of him, and at the tip it is obvious he has been mutilated. Auron gives it a few forceful strokes before his body weight slams down into Jecht, searching for any entrance.  
It takes three strokes until he's out. Jecht's heel digs into his ribs, pushes him away. “Don't you learn anatomy these days? Damn it.“ He reaches down, spits into his hand, a disgusting noise deep from the lungs, and lubes up the boy's dick. “Gonna guide you, okay?“  
Auron grumbles. He doesn't want to hurt him, true, but it's pissing him off to hear that voice. "Shut up," he commands darkly, though quietly appreciative of the help, before taking his time. It's easier if it's all off the ground... He sits on his haunches, and takes Jecht's hips in both hands, lifting his body with ease until the pieces are more mechanically aligned. He takes pause a moment, thinking to add more spit to the mix, before pushing forward lightly until the head of his cock is just barely encapsulated by dark flesh.

Jecht nods, takes a deep breath. “Easy now.“ His hands are reaching out for the boy, pulling him inside. Short little gasps to get over the pain that's always there for the first moments, and he's still grinning, mumbles a little and very honest fuck. Just not used to this size anymore.  
Auron obeys his command, and pushes in slowly, inching forward as he feels the hot pressure relaxing to accept him. It's good... too damn good. And still that shit-eating grin, as if he weren't the one being fucked here. Auron would choke him if he didn't consider the possibility of accidentally breaking his neck a not-so-unlikely one. He's taken him all the way to the hilt, and savors the hot, wet sheathing that pumps with a heartbeat around him. It's obvious he's overwhelmed, his face is glowing red, eyebrows knit together tightly. He's starting to sober up, and asks himself if this is really happening, wondering if he had enough nog left to not remember this in the morning. "Does it hurt..." he asks quietly.  
“Don't think the great Jecht can handle your size, eh?“ His voice is strained, something Auron rarely has witnessed, but he starts moving now, slowly impaling himself on that magnificent spear again and again, one hand around his own shaft. It's not more than a few inches he's moving, just for training, just to ease himself in, and the vein on his temple is drumming a hard beat.

"You're teasing me," Auron grumbles, turning his head and regarding his conquest through narrowed eyes. One hand moves to explore the taut belly, passing his fingers over the skin to satisfy his curiosity. That gaudy tattoo makes him sneer. Writing his own name on himself as if anyone might forget it. "Tell me when you're ready," he mutters breathlessly, embarrassed and angry and horny as all hell. "Let's get this over with."  
“Bring it on, boy,“ Jecht snarls through gritted teeth, well aware he will regret this sooner than later, but he won't do the little monk the favor to admit defeat, not now and not ever, and if he tears him apart, he will go with a grin, and suddenly he starts laughing. Laugh long and hard and he presses his hand against his mouth as he imagines so very vividly how the boy tries to explain the horrible fate of his other guardian to sweet Braska.

He doesn't say a single word more, throwing his body over Jecht's, one hand pressed flat, keeping balance in the sand, while the fingers of the other hand investigate Jecht's mouth, before closing firmly over his Adam's apple. He doesn't spare much time before his hips collide quite audibly with the old man, in a quick and hard rhythm. He chops at him until breathless, when he takes a moment to gather himself. Sweat falls in rivulets from his arched back, like tiny waterfalls cascading from a ruined cliff face. Auron thinks of something mean to say, but can't utter it between his labored breaths, and when he sucks in a lungful of air, he resumes his assault with twofold force, groaning and hissing.  
Jecht is silent for once. Now, of all times, he is silent, but his mouth is agape and his cock a stalagmite in his fist and he's pushing against the merciless thrusts, and he's still grinning. The fucker is still grinning and enjoying himself, saving his breath for more important things. Who would have thought the boy had that in him? The words return to Jecht's head again and again, sometimes in senseless fragments and fuck, it hurts and fuck, so good, and he gazes up to strange stars and gets lost between them, swimming in the sea up there.

Auron is seeing stars too, of a different variety. Rumbling orgasm is beginning to warm his abdomen, nearly there, nearly done, finish the deed and be done with the whole thing. He pumps harder and harder, adjusting Jecht's body, met with no more resistance than a ragdoll. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck you! Fuck you, scum! I hate you! He digs his claws into Jecht's thighs as he leaves the evidence of his anger white and thickly dripped into the sand. Auron falls backward, exhausted, not quite sure what to do with himself. He desperately wants to punch Jecht in the face, though he isn't sure he can muster the strength. Perhaps if he enters striking distance.

All of a sudden, the boy freezes. Is gone then, leaving Jecht empty and alone on a high crest, and he's tumbling down from the skies back into an aching body with an erection so hard it's painful, and he blinks. Sits up. Blinks again, not grinning anymore. Crawls over to Auron, legs too shaky to stand, and touches his shoulder, just for a moment or two, and then continues on towards the water, an amphibian deciding that evolution was a mistake.

Auron takes a half-assed swing at him, but misses. His arm lands like a barbell on his chest, dead weight. "Come back here, coward." The stars are watching him, twinkling knowingly, and he shivers. "On second thought, I hope you drown," and he's almost instantly back to his old self. The lusting monk who'd just gotten to know Jecht in a carnal sense must have been a passer-by.

“You and a whole bunch of other folks on second places.“ Jecht taunts him, but his heart is not in it. The cool water does little to reduce the swelling, but at least mercifully hides it. “You came here cause you were thirsty, right?“  
Auron doesn't acknowledge his words, but manages to flip onto his stomach and drag himself to the water's edge, taking a measured handful into his palms and cooling his throat. The water here tastes different than in Bevelle. Metallic. Dusty, somehow. "Forgive me."

“Nah. Nothing to forgive, at least from my side. We still as uncool as we've always been?“ Jecht has found a spot to sit, the water up to his chest, and knots little braids of bashfulness into his mess of hair.  
"You didn't reach ..." Auron pauses to rephrase, "You did not release." Ever formal and detached. "Forgive me, or allow me to do this for you. It's not for your sake. If we aren't settled even, I won't sleep well."  
“Didn't come. Was good though.“ Under the river, his hands wrap around his hard self, and he flashes his roguish grin. “You know what? I forgive you. Much as I sometimes like watching you cringe, it shouldn't be because of stuff like this.“

Jecht has successfully broken Auron's brain, and he sits in silence, puzzling. Was this all some kind of scheme? Or had his preconceived notions about the Zanarkander been this far off the mark? What had even happened tonight? He bows, customarily. "I ...don't deserve your kindness," he says, confused, but hoping he's arrived at the right thing to say.  
A little splash of water as the old man shrugs. “Good thing I don't give a shit about your opinion, eh?“, and it still somehow sounds nice, or at least nicer, but maybe that's just in Auron's head. “How about you go and see how Braska is doing?“ I would like to finish this off like a pro.  
Auron smirks.  
"Suit yourself. My offer is walking out the door," he says coolly, ambling off to where his clothes have been abandoned. He pauses, looking out toward the hunched figure it the water.  
"I don't think you would, but... Lord Braska can't know."

"That you're not used to drinking? Guess he already knows that. Wouldn't know of anything else worth mentioning tonight." Offer. Something about the word, spoken so sober now, makes Jecht feel the cold water, letting his hardness melt away, and he remembers why he finds the boy so difficult. No worth in the whole endeavor if one part isn't into it. Is supposed to be fun, after all.  
Auron is all too aware of the coldness of that reply, the coldness of his usual self, it's by design after all. Seems he never really wants to do anything, only that he has to. Low expectations, unwilling participant.  
Mutual understanding. "Alright then," is all he says before padding off towards camp, not sparing a second glance to the shore.

Down under, between the waves, a few strokes testing the waters, then a Zanarkander groaning. "Alright then." Jecht apes him. He'll have to teach him about the virtue about an exit on point one day. An exit that doesn't kill a well-meaning erection. "What a fucking waste."  
He lets himself fall back. Gets carried away by the river for quite a while, not thinking about anything in particular, or too much at all.


	2. Silly

Finally at fireside, the young guardian crouches protectively over Braska, brushing a gentle hand down the mild face until blue eyes flick open and immediately soften at the sight of him.

"You're wet," Braska tugs him closer to the fire from his spot on the ground.

"Sleep, my lord."

"Swimming in the river?"

He finds it difficult to lie at the worst of times. "Learning."

 

Jecht comes back later, way later. The sun comes with him, stretching lazy golden fingers over wet hair. "Been out," he says. "doing my daily dozen." And that is all he says, and he does not explain why he brought fish for breakfast, but fresh fish is fresh fish, and as they get the fire going again, he starts making dough for bread.

He whistles a little tune as he kneads the dough, this kind of good, relaxed mood so early in the morn a rarity with him.

 

Braska greets him cheerfully, but puts a finger to his lips, motioning to the unmoving red lump on the ground behind him.

"Auron's passed out," he says quietly. "Must have been the drink. I feel a bit badly for pressuring him, if I'm honest."

He putters around, helping Jecht with this and that though he's batted away more than once. Too many cooks, and all.

"You're in a merry mood today! Are you beginning to feel more at home?"

"The boy needs to loosen up a bit. Will break like a bad sword otherwise. He's just having a hard time with it." A wild grin as two beautiful paths for raunchy jokes open in his mind, but this morning and with this man, he will not walk down either. "And giving a little aid once in a while ain't a bad thing, as long as he doesn't notice."

Braska's question remains unanswered.  _ What should he say? Yes, and no, and it's complicated, and can't we stay at the riverside, I know we can't, but sometimes I just need a good soak an _ d ... wetness, seaweed, fishy smells, so many possibilities, but not with  _ him _ . It's not that Braska is easily shocked, rather that he isn't, and rude jokes are way less fun when all they earn is a little smile instead of a groan.

 

Braska wears that oft-worn smile.

"I know he's trying," the summoner turns on his heel and regards the sour-faced man whose arms are crossed defensively even in sleep. After all, he'd known Auron for years now. "It isn't so easy to break the rigors you're raised with. Try not to take his ways as a criticism of yours." There's that smile again.

Jecht seems lost in thought, and Braska fears he may have said something wrong.

"Smells good. You're quite the chef, the mighty Jecht," he adds with a chuckle.

 

"Nah. Just enough to survive, and you're getting the holiday special anyway." A look at the summoner's slightly raised brow. "Kinda nice to actually have to cook, you know? Our chef back then was rather strict with the macro splits,, and that ended up with..."  _ The fuck is up with you, dude? Getting all soft and mushy just because your butthole still hurts? _ "...stuff that wasn't necessarily fun. Guess that counts as duty in a way too, eh?"

 

Macro splits...? Braska feigns understanding and nods amicably.

"It absolutely does! It's a skill too few of us men possess these days. I'll admit, my wife was always better at it than I was, but when she was gone, I had to learn. For my Yuna, you know." That archaic smile never once wavers, regardless of that prickling pain in his chest.

 

The crispening fish skins smell delightful, and rouse the sleeping man to partial consciousness, who mumbles a few strings of profanities before turning on his side.

 

"I was thinking, maybe we could stay here a few nights," Braska says after a moment of silence, "I want to clear my head. What do you think, Jecht?"

He earns himself a new entry in the album called "The many faces of Jecht" with this question. Disbelief washes over the ragged features, then a longing so profound it takes away some of the deeply engraved cynicism, and all that stays is a little smile that almost feels innocent, making the old drunkard a stranger for a heartbeat or two. Then, the mighty Jecht is back. Shrugs. "Sure, if that is what you like? Think we got enough rations to make do for a few days more, and enough drink to either make me tipsy or the both of you howling drunk."

He kneels down at the fire and starts forming little flat cakes from the dough, placing them on the hot stones around the flames.. "Wanna get some water for tea? Should be good to eat when you come back."

 

Jecht is easy to read, and Braska commits that smile to memory. Somehow, on that bearded face, it's childlike.

"Aye!" he calls, and that artichoke flower silhouette is already making its merry way down to the riverside, kettle in hand.

 

Dark eyes are watching Jecht's movements from behind narrowed lids. What an absolutely awful dream. He stretches and pops himself loudly, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

The voice is barely a croak. "Hello."

 

“Oy. Water to your left.“ Jecht is merciful enough to keep his voice low. “How's your head?“

Horrible, probably, as is the boy's stomach. He remembers how sick he was the first times, how his body was protesting against the poison he put in it, but then, he really liked being drunk, and the boy barely had anything, why is he so...  _ Oh. Guilty conscience. You wish you had more, so you wouldn't remember doing what you wanted for once. _

 

"Beating, like a drum. I take it that's normal," Auron growls, reaching for the canteen but stopping himself short.  _ Forget that, and forget it now, sinner. You can have food and drink when you're free of that poison. Atonement is not meant to be easy. _

"Where's Braska?"

 

"Getting water for tea." He takes one of the flatbreads, sprinkles some salt over it and comes over to the boy. Squats down there. "You'll eat that, and you'll drink, and then you'll take a shit and another nap, and then everything will be better." These are things Jecht knows.  _ Don't torture yourself out of habit, idiot. _

 

_ No! You can't make me!  _ He really is a child, screwing up his mouth into a frown and wrenching his head away.

"I appreciate it," he lies through grit teeth, "but you don't need to take care of me, thank you." Auron sits up, clenching hard against a wave of nausea that hits him. Legs crossed, prayer beads clenched in fists, pressed into his knees, he looks sickly stoic, like a king freshly poisoned at his table.

 

He doesn't make it far into his mantras before there's a small lake of bile on the ground next to him.

 

The Zanarkander watches him, trying his best not to laugh.  _ Thought I escaped having to deal with teenage rebellion when I got lost. Oh well. _

"Yo Auron, I didn't stop you from drinking too much, so let me at least make sure you can do your job properly again, okay?"  _ Yeah, yeah, it's all my fault, I'm a badly disguised devil, now be a good boy and do as I say. _

 

That might be the most reasonable suggestion that Jecht has ever offered. He takes pause, and in a rare display, concludes that the drunkard is, regrettably, correct. Auron's sun browned cheeks feel hot.

"... Yes. You're right. I was not thinking of my duties to Braska," his reply is curt, and his forehead kisses the ground in a low bow.

"I will have a lot of making up to do when our journey is through," the canteen tips back and his throat feels sweet relief.

 

"I see you're up and at 'em," comes the cheery voice just down the way, his lopsided form belabored with the kettle.

"Good morning, my lord," another bow. Voice like a lamb. _ Please acknowledge me again! _

"How's it coming, chef?"

"Good to eat." He gets up, takes the kettle from Braska and sets it upon the fire.

"You remember you just were following your Lord's wishes when you started drinking yesternight, right? So move your ass here and eat with us. We're not in a hurry today." _ Thanks a ton for that, holy man. _

 

Whatever it is he did to the fish, the herbs he stuffed them with before slowly broiling them over the open flames, indeed makes them good to eat. Jecht's tendency to at least try most things he finds at the wayside pays off, even if they still don't really know how he never managed to really poison himself with it. His stomach seems made of the same iron as the rest of him.

 

Auron obeys him wordlessly, though his stomach chimes in with a hungry whine. It smells ... palatable. Hot enough. A firm press with the little finger, it's cooked through. The taste? Oh, my.

 

"It's delicious."

 

"I concur!" the summoner coos. Auron!  _ How proud I am!  _ Maybe the two guardians were capable of some closeness after all. It seemed that seawall was beginning to be beaten down by the careless waves.

 

“Thanks,“ Jecht says, and adds nothing more. Starts eating instead. He's taking himself back this morning, trying his best to let it be filled with peace and  _ comfort _ for both of his companions, and it feels like it could always be this way, the sun banishing the cold from their bones.

He watches the boy discreetly, wondering how he will cope. Briefly musing if it indeed was as bad of an idea as it seemed yesterday, agreeing with his drunk self that yes, it was, and he thinks back of the boy's hunger and despair and his heavy, swollen cock, and silently curses as the memory gets him going again. Boy killed the mood like a boss yesterday, but through the vaseline-smeared lense of hindsight, everything looks better. Foregoing release, yeah, this is what he'd say, wasn't the brightest idea after all. _ Get up. Pour boiling water over leaves. Serve tea. Don't look at the little shit licking clean his greasy fingers. What are you? Fifteen? _

 

The Bevellans are sat together now, quietly discussing their itinerary, a well-loved map laid out in front of them. They'll cross the Moonflow tomorrow, then pay a visit to the home of the Guado maester, Jyscal.  _ Mustn't forget to present him with a gift. Guado are fond of Lucan glass beads aren't they? Or was it lacquerware? _ Auron bristles as he feels a gaze on him, his eyes fixing on Jecht's for a moment too long.  _ Lost in thought, old man? _ He turns back to the map, when his attention is taken by the suggestion of that stiff form tenting black shorts. Something pulses in him too, and he sneers, digging fingers into his thigh as subtly as possible. "Are you certain we need to rest here another night, Lord Braska? We should be moving on..." "Why?" "...why? You know why. We can't afford to waste time."

 

Jecht serves them tea, orange fabric draped like an apron over his middle, hiding anything that might be under there, playing the demure servant with his usual scenery-chewing gusto for a little while, giving up on it as he notices that they are both too busy for a laugh. "Because the old man asked him to, Auron, because he misses the water and could use a break. And all of us could use a thorough bath, and so could our clothes. We've got enough to eat and no idea when we'll have the next opportunity to do that in peace. Wanna show up at that Jyscal smelling like we do? Maybe he digs the guano flavor, damned if I know."  _ Leave it to the holy man if he wants to show weakness in front of the boy. Let me take that bullet for you, Braska. Don't spoil your image. _

As with most things, Auron doesn't accept Jecht's words as truth, his weary look to Braska calling him a liar louder than words.

 

"Auron," Braska chides him. "It's only one more night. I think you both deserve, no, need the rest. We all do."

The monk has his tail between his legs now, offering only a grunt in reply, eyes fixed on the ground.

Braska basks in the awkward silence before gathering up his robes, standing, and thanking Jecht for the meal. I don't mean to play favorites, Auron, but you've got an attitude problem. Perhaps I'm too deep in my parenting books.

"Now," he says, bending to pick up his staff, "I plan on spending the day taking a little walk around, maybe some meditation, maybe a nap. What you do is up to you."

"You have a grand day, boss." Jecht, smiling again, collecting the used crockery, obviously very unwilling to have his mood spoiled by a stubborn boy. Very willing to find an exit to the situation that doesn't look like an escape.

"Gonna be back for dinner?"

"I've never been one to miss a meal," Braska curtsies, disappearing into the tall reeds, jovially ignoring Auron's cries to be careful.

 

The monk is entirely dissatisfied, picking his teeth uncouthly with a fishbone. No sense debating it now. Auron clears his place, throws off his coat and presses his chest to the ground, quick push ups as violent as if he were trying to move the earth itself.

The great Jecht meanwhile proves himself a great housekeeper, going through Braska's luggage, well aware where to find the dirty laundry. Getting his own then (a spare pair of pants, worn enough to almost stand on their own given the chance).

"Oy, gimme your dirty stuff, will you? Gonna make use of the break and the water."

Auron pumps his arms a few more times before sitting back on his haunches, stripping off the chaptered leather vest that so tightly hugs his chest, then sets to work removing his trousers.

 

"That's the lot. Thanks," Tosses the pile of sweaty clothes at Jecht. There's that fundoshi again, black this time, coiled braid running between two tight glutes to a t-shape, wrapping the hips. The body straightens out against the ground and enjoys unrestricted exercise. Fifty. Fifty-one. Fifty-two.

Jecht keeps it to a short appreciating gaze and a grin before he leaves. It takes more than a chiseled young man working out to get him interested, otherwise every day with his team would have been a single orgy. Looking back, that might not have been the worst way to spend time between matches.

 

Down at the stream, with a bar of soap and a decent stone to rub fabric against. He's on his knees, just like he remembers his grandma doing things when he visited her in the summers down at her little cottage in the countryside. Bit of a madwoman she was, strictly opposed to everything technical. Almost a Yevonite, really, and hard as a rock. One of the rare people he really respected.

He actually likes doing this from time to time. Not the worst workout for arms and back, and it's a good way to let off some steam. Rage, rage against the staining of the clothes.  _ What did you expect of the boy, dude? Take it in stride? Ain't used to release, one way or the other. _

 

For once he's behaving himself.  _ Maybe the old dog does know how to sit and stay _ . Still, Auron can't shake the feeling that something awful is about to happen, Jecht's fault or not. Rain isn't more than a day away, he can see the clouds over the forest, over his knees, one-hundred-thirty-five crunches in. It won't do to stay here if the fire won't take on wet wood.

 

He's drenched in sweat now, and a quick swipe of his cheek reminds him he is capable of growing a beard. Perhaps a bath is in order, before the storm clouds electrify the river. He gathers his toiletries together and heads down into the marsh, keeping a marked distance away from Jecht. It's foggy, but he hasn't forgotten.

 

Calloused hands work to untie the too-tight hair, which when freed falls in a singular clump against his back, full of salt and sand and blood. He dabs a bit of lotion from a small jar into his hand and works at cleaning out the remnants of all yesterday's journeying. The perfumed shampoo smells of the Bevelle vogue, and Auron relaxes a bit, almost believing he'd be back at the cloister in the morning. Almost forgetting the terms of his practical excommunication.

His peace of mind is disturbed by someone calling. Not his name, but something that sounds a lot like mermaid, but he knows the old dog's howling.

Jecht still kneeled there, working like a washerwoman, not really looking at him. “Wanna talk?“

  
  


Auron's working over the rack of abdominal muscles with his sponge when the voice breaks through the audio barrier formed by sudsy hair.

"Is something on your mind?" his reply comes when he's whipped the heavy tresses over his shoulder, focusing now on ridding his armpits of three weeks stench. Something feels hard under the skin. Another cyst? Then again, he's prone to ingrown hairs. Wen Kinoc was right about waxing.

 

_ You're sulking like a lover scorned. Trying to keep face while I'm in view. I'd be in for make-up-sex, but that would make everything worse, but then, that never kept me from anything. Eyes on the face, old boy. _

"You're pretty tense, even by your means.. Shall we do something about it later?"

Shark grin, leaving things intentionally ambivalent. He knows a thing or two about tense muscles and ways to dissolve those problems. Mighty Jecht wasn't the star player of the Zanarkand Abes for nothing, and massages were a thing they forced upon him daily, just to be ready for the next day of training.

 

"A sparring match?" His tone of voice doesn't indicate any suspicion. All morning spent hoping that what happened yesternight was a dream, and he's beginning to believe it. A Yevonite will follow the Yevon way - ignore and deny.

Black hair is thoroughly rinsed out and adopts a little shine. Auron straightens his back and poses aloofly.

"I didn't think locking swords was your style. Unless I misunderstand you." Make him say it.

 

_ Thought we had one yesternight. _

_ Only sword I need is right here. _

He wrings one of Braska's loinclothes and lies it aside. Cocks his head slightly.

"Misunderstand me? When has that ever happened?" A little twitch around the eyes, telltale sign he's joking. "But I was more thinking of working out the kinks and knots in you instead of adding new ones."

 

_ It is... tempting. Not everything that occurred last night was objectionable. Perhaps it was more a matter of the who and why rather than the what. _

"Hmh." Arms cross the proud chest. Flirtatious little acolyte. "I don't think I have enough for that."

 

_ Enough for... Heh. Not what I meant, but not a No either. _ “You can keep your panties on, no need to get them in a bunch. Nothing I wouldn't do for the bossman if he wants it. Maybe he does want it if he sees what we're doing?“

Jecht can't hold back his amusement now, one of the reason why people love playing poker with him.

 

"Oh!" Offended as a little church woman.

"I'll do what it takes to placate your appetite but you'll leave him out of it. I know you aren't used to it but he's to be treated with some dignity." Auron's only half joking, a tiny twinge of fear tugging at his throat. Despite his bookish ways, and pious heart, Braska is a man to try anything once, and the monk knows it.

"Besides," he thinks he'll try something cheeky, "Aren't I enough for you?"

 

"I once took on half the team, boy, one after the after, and went for drinks after that." Spoken in earnest. Their physical therapist had been sick that day, and Jecht and the trainer did what had to be done. "Took quite a bit of oil until they all were finished, but I was very thorough."

Jecht watches the tiny shifts in the boy's face. Holds his breath to keep himself from laughing, starts scrubbing the next piece of laundry then, just to avert his eyes, just so Auron can't see him biting his lip.  _ Shit, this is hilarious. Best foreplay since a while, even if he'll turn tail and run from nothing at all. _

 

Auron's absolutely green, and finishes bathing himself wordlessly, eyeing Jecht with head reared back, double-chins, furrowed brow.

He's kidding, right? The monk has a hard enough time as it is detecting sarcasm, and Jecht is becoming more difficult to read.

"That's very special, Jecht," he says with a nauseated laugh before he goes to shore, drying himself in the sun, checking his body over for any suds. I hope Braska is done with his excursion. I could use some intelligent conversation.

 

_ Yes, that is good enough. Nice and clean, and way better than before. One or two things are in need of some mending. Maybe I'm in the right mind for that later. _

“Wanna help me carry this stuff back? Need to hang it to dry properly.“

_ Special. Tidus had a classmate they called special, too. Was more fun to spend time with than you are, boy. At least he wasn't too stuck up in his own ass to laugh at silly jokes. Loved being carried around, too. Nice kid. _

“If you wanna stay here for a bit, it's fine too.“ Jecht collects the fruits of his labor and gets up. Smiles. “Follow the holy man's wishes and do what relaxes you. Ain't that bad, once in a while.“

 

"No, no, I insist," Auron pads through the sand and takes as much clothing as he can hold into his arms. "Can't leave you with all the washing, you might barter some of it off."

  
  


The pair make their way back to camp, an overcast day muting all natural color, the magnificent Jecht looking almost soft in the white light. They continue in silence until, reaching the camp, Auron barks sharply, dropping the clothes in a heap.

 

"Hey!"

 

Attracted by the lingering smell of breakfast, a pack of dog-like fiends have found their way into the journeyers' supplies, fish bones and scraps of meat pulled apart by hungry fangs. Potions trodden on, broken glass all about. The largest of the creatures spots the pair and lets out a low snarl, purple hackles bristling, its brood turning their attention to the two laundrymen.

 

"Get the blades." Jecht's voice is calm as he places the moist fabric on the ground, hoping that he found a clean enough place. Picks up a stone as he does, and one of the long straps his companions wear around their middle. _ Let's see if this works... _

"Oy doggy! Catch!" he shouts as he throws, hitting the beast against the deformed skull. Takes a few quick steps back, running, or pretending to run, just to lure them away from camp, the length of fabric between his hands like a rope.

The stricken fiend lets out an unearthly yowl, blood gushing down its long snout. It lunges forward, forgoing Auron completely, who obeys Jecht's orders and stealthily reclaims their weapons, finding himself now behind the pack of wolves.

 

Some of the smaller creatures seem wise to his plans, snapping at Auron's bare feet as his hands are full. He delivers a swift axe kick to one, unwise, but he's killed it, though not without taking a fang to the pad of his foot.

 

"Shit--!"

 

Snarling wildly, the leader of the pack dashes forward towards the unarmed Zanarkander.

 

"I'm going to toss it, look sharp!" Auron cries, Jecht's massive blade set against his hand and arm like a javelin.  _ Yevon above, this thing is heavy. _ A grunt, and the blade flies rather ungracefully through the air.

His sword, this ridiculous, unbalanced anchor-thing that was love at first sight when they found it at a blacksmith, isn't the only thing that flies. Jecht jumps, just as the alpha does, and for a heartbeat it looks like they'll crash into each other, but then, he's on the creature's back, the strap of fabric like a noose around its bulging throat, and he's pulling hard, the muscles on his arms tense enough to make a sculptor's heart melt in glee.

The blade lands with a soft thud on the grass, waiting for him when he's finished, like any true love does.

 

The grip of Auron's own blade melts like butter in his hand, fingers fitting into grooves eroded by the waves of ten thousand hours practice. Where Jecht's slab of iron was, just as he was, a foundling, Auron's blade was born and raised beside him. It began small, two feet in length, when he earned it at thirteen, and as the years went on and his strength grew, so did the katana.

It cuts through the garm hide precise enough to split the hairs, leaving two steaming corpses cleft in a shimmering pool of blood and pyreflies, seeming to absorb the black liquid with thirst.

 

The creature, though huge as it is, struggles against Jecht's weight, suffocating with each thrash it makes against him. Blood spray from the wound in its forehead forms a mad pattern on the ground.

"Be careful, dammit!"

The Zanarkander is glued to the sinewy back like a tick, naked heels digging into the dog's flanks, and he's pulling hard, and he's laughing between breaths. There's a fire in his eyes Auron has rarely witnessed.

He's having fun.

 

It is strange to see him like this, one animal struggling with another, and soon both of them are shiny and slick with sweat and blood, both of them fiends, unwilling to give in.

Jecht is trying his best to steer the beast away from the camp, to not cause any more destruction than they already left.

 

They are quick, but no match for a long reach. Auron has made quick work of the rest of the garms, blood and viscera shimmering into hundreds of pearlescent pyreflies. Unscathed, though his damn foot hurts. Trepidatious, he looks down to assess the damage. Damn tooth went nearly all the way through, will take more than potions to fix it up.

"Would you kill that cursed thing already?" he groans. "This isn't a rodeo!"

 

The Zanarkander reaches out, one hand gripping the jaw of the creature hard, the other at the base of its skull, and he pushes and pulls and twist at the same time, and with a sick noise, something in there breaks, and the creature goes limp. Slides to the ground with him, leaving a glowing trace behind them, and it looks like it's dissolving into the man that took its life. His arms are those of a giant ape, strong and sinewy, and suddenly Auron understand why he has no problem handling his sword.

 

Jecht lands on hands and knees. Takes a moment to breathe, deep and hard, and he grunts. A shiver runs through him.

"Hmph. Well, cleaner than my bunch I suppose. You alright?" Auron isn't concerned as much as he is impressed. He very well may have pulled something, and he isn't entirely convinced the awful crunching sound he'd heard was solely the fiend.

Offers a hand to help him to his feet. _ Is he a man or a gorilla? _

 

Judging by his grip alone as he let's himself be dragged up, probably the latter, or strengthened by the liberal use of that horrible chunk of iron.

"Always am. You okay, buddy?" the ape-man asks and carefully moves his left hand, checking if things are in place.  _ Stretching works. Fist works. Wrist is a bit iffy, but nothing major. Good. _

 

The term of endearment makes his face feel hot.

 

"Might need a few stitches." Auron presents his foot. Hurts  _ damn  _ bad, but he was never one to make a fuss over an injury, especially not one so thoughtlessly earned.

"Nevermind it now. We need to get dressed and look for Braska."

"We're having a day off, remember? Day off means pants are optional."

Jecht wraps his arm around him, helping him to hobble over to a fallen tree to sit own.  _ No needless strain onto a wound _ . "We'll take care of you first. The rest won't run away. Messes never do."

 

Auron frowns, half-heartedly resisting Jecht's insistent hands pushing him aground.

"If the fiends were here, he could be in danger. We need to look for him first," he protests, before a rustle in the foliage just beside him produces that long maroon robe, capped by the familiar sandy face, staff in hand, unmolested.

 

"Look for who? Me?"

"Lord Braska! Are you alright?"

The summoner's eyes squeeze into happy arcs.

"Of course, dear boy!" His hand reaches down and he strokes Auron's round cheek affectionately, before patting Jecht on the shoulder in greeting.

"What happened here? The camp... Oh, -- your foot!"

“Had some unwanted visitors. They're gone now, but they left a pretty mess. Make sure he doesn't try to help, will you? Gotta clean the wound before we close it, pretty sure boy's got some shit in there.“

Jecht pinches Auron’s other cheek, and he earns a rare wink saying  _ well done _ , before the Zanarkander gets up to boil some water to wash away blood and dirt.

 

_ That's both cheeks now. _

 

"I'm not a child," Auron complains against Braska's mothering. The summoner sinks to his haunches and examines the wound, delicately turning the foot this way and that to assess the damage.

"Hmm. A few stitches and you'll be right as rain," comes the sympathetic prognosis. "Nevermind, what's for lunch?"

_ Thanks for trying to change the subject. _ The guardian tugs against Braska's robes, face feeling hot. His voice is muted behind his hand.

"My Lord... Some clothes, please..."

 

"Oh!" Covers his mouth and giggles, retrieving something from the pile on the ground and tossing it Auronward.

"Jecht, don't trouble yourself. I'm fine." He may as well have been telling a fleabitten dog not to scratch.  _ Even when he's doing something nice for someone else, that man is so damn stubborn. _

“Nah. Gotta do it properly. Don't want any dirt or teeth or whatever the doggy left in there to come out with a bunch of stinky pus in a few days, just because you didn't tell.“

 

The Zanarkander inspects the damage while he's waiting for the water. Collects a few shards of glass. Ah, some luck. Most of the expensive stuff is fine.

“Wanted to go and see what the river got for us when I was done with the laundry, so... probably something fishy again, if that's alright with the both of you.“  _ Did I say this right? Team-building. The boy deserves a bit of it. _

 

"Fish. Sounds delish!"

Auron gives Braska a sympathetic smirk.  _ Cute _ .

 

The summoner takes a seat on the ground amongst the leaves, and works to undo his headdress, uncomfortably warm in the unusual weather. Freed of its ornament, his head is laughably small against the cavernous garments he wears. His hair is mousy, cropped short and sitting cleanly, high on the forehead. It's slick with sweat, which beads on the pale skin, dripping over the ocean blue eyes that he shares with little Yuna. A handsome face too, but not youthful, just kind and intelligent.

"Tomorrow we'll ride the shoopuf, won't that be fun!"

"I shall try to enjoy it for your sake, sir."

"Oh! Stick-in-the-mud."

 

“You know, boss...,“ Jecht squats down beside them, bringing steaming water and cloth, “I threatened the boy to do something against his tense muscles. He looked at me with doe eyes, and I told him I'd do the same to you if you want it. So...“ He drops the first piece of fabric into the water, fishes it out with chopsticks and lets it cool for a bit, “...how about it?“

 

"Oh! You devil, you!" Braska bursts into a fit of giggles as if he's never heard anything quite so funny in his life.

"He told you that, did he, Auron?" He leans over and hugs the monk's leg, before patting his knee and releasing him. He snorts and covers his mouth, unable to keep from laughing.

 

"You've broken him," says Auron, dryly, watching the older man curl into a ball of laughter from his perch on the log. Silly old priest. So much for being a man of god.

"Do me first!"

"Lord Braska!"

Jecht shrugs. “Sure. We can give the boy a double when you're finished. I'll show you what to do.“  _ Shit, holy man, stop laughing, or I won't keep it in much longer. _ “He might get some enjoyment out of that.“

 

Braska bites his finger and wheezes sharply, his head falling into his lap, body quaking with laughter. The corner of Auron's mouth twitches, it's becoming harder not to smile, harder still not to be at least a little concerned for Braska's state of mind.

"What's gotten into you?"

"I'm- I," the summoner forces back a fit, "I'm sorry, I just-  _ Ha _ !" Head meets lap.

"Hm." He understands almost immediately. Things that might elicit a smile on any other day are irresistibly hilarious when Braska needs to laugh. The man must have done some thinking on his solo excursion this morning.

 

“Foot. Gimme.“ A gentle slap on the wounded leg, and a strangely knowing gaze by the Zanarkander.  _ Let the bossman be for a while. Gonna be okay in the end, somehow. _

The old man sits down cross-legged, places the wounded foot on his leg and starts patting away all what should not be there. He works gently, carefully for a change, trying his best not to cause unnecessary pain.

"Ouch... careful, dammit," Auron growls under his breath, yanking his foot away suddenly when the old man's touch is a little less than gentle.

 

"With a foot like that, you're sure you don't need another day's rest?"

"I'm certain, my lord. It's going to rain tomorrow. Unless we want all our supplies washed away," he squirms as he feels the prick of the needle making its cardinal suture, "We leave first thing."

Braska wears a crestfallen smile.

"... I appreciate you enjoy the riverside, Lord Braska. There will be more along the way!"  _ Nice try, you dog. _

 

Auron's hand shoots out instinctively and squeezes Jecht's shoulder tight. This doesn't have any business being as painful as it is.

"Are you nearly done...?"

“It takes as long as it takes,  _ boy _ .“ The slightest hint of impatience in Jecht's voice. He dabs some potion onto the first stitches and holds the ankle tight while flesh closes. Grows anew. The Zanarkander is still not really comfortable with this kind of battlefield medicine, this mix between surgery and magic and using just enough of both so the threads don't disappear under new tissue and cause other problems, and so he watches closely.

“Doesn't look too bad,“ he states after a while of focused staring. “We can pull that shit soon. Say, boss, you wanna go down to the river and take a dip while we clean up here? You're decent enough in not getting eaten.“

 

A queasy feeling sits in Auron's belly as his flesh begins to undulate. Tendons tighten. Blood vessels unwind themselves and rewind again. He swears Wen Kinoc was lying when he said he'd gotten used to it.

"You have a little rest now," comes Braska's mild paternity, along with a pat on the shoulder. Auron hangs his head.

"I'll be glad to, but won't you come with me? Can't play king of the castle by myself. Auron can tidy up, can't you Auron?"

"...Of course, my lord."

 

"Be with you in a minute, boss. You'll need the lead with all your damn layers." Shark grin, hand still around the monk's ankle, and something among those shiny rows tells the summoner that it won't be more than a minute, five tops, and there will be no blood.

Not more than necessary.

 

Jecht waits til Braska's out of hearing range, tightens his grip then. "You doing this just to make a point, Auron? That you're better than me? That you don't wanna be alone with me more than necessary, because I'm a horribly person doing horrible things? Fuck that. Bossman needs a  _ break _ , and you know it, and you'll be a good boy and your foot is hurting way too much to walk for one more day." His voice is ripe with barely suppressed anger. "Quit bitchin', okay? I won't lay a hand on you, if that's what you're fearing. Not behind your uptight lil' ass, but..."

He bares his teeth. Animal, predator again. Tries a smile. "Let's just be fuckin'  _ nice _ , okay?"

 

"Of all the nerve." The reply is low and tempered, those words just barely containing an outburst. He jerks his leg from Jecht's clutches.

"Go on, assume this is all about you. How selfish. I'm only doing my job, and that's to protect _ Lord Braska _ ," his words are punctuated by an accusatory finger right between the eyes. "He does not have the wherewithal to finish this pilgrimage alone, and you know it. He is relying on us - on me, to point him in the right direction!"

_ Good going Jecht, you've gone and got his dander up. _

"This goes beyond you, beyond me, this is a matter of life or death! You must understand by now! You must! If we are tired or wounded makes no difference!" Auron, always the passionate jackass. He's almost yelling now.

"And if I have need to protect him from his own  _ guardians _ , I will!"

 

A hard breath as the Zanarkander tries to collect himself.

"Listen, buddy. You don't win the big game when you risk everything in training. Had a young fellow in my team once, great talent, full of energy and zeal. Worked his ass off to be the very best, and I wanted him to be, and then the idiot goes and breaks his hip. During training. Not because of another player, but because he  _ fucks up _ because he's tired and angry and can't focus anymore. He's out of order for more than a year, and his kicks are never the same. Was a thing of beauty watching him play before, now he's just standard, and that gets you nowhere."

 

He gets up slowly, wiping his hands on his trousers. "I know you mean best for him, and so do I. Journey will only get harder the further we get, right? Give him some leisure time as long as we still can afford it, so he's fit when the finals start. He won't ask you to do it. I will. Give him some rest, Auron.  _ Please _ ."

 

_ So the great Jecht knows that word?  _ Signs and wonders. He's not begging, but asking between equals, which is rare enough with the boy and him, and he goes to collect the laundry, sorting out the pieces that got dirty again when the mess started.

 

The monk takes a deep breath and pushes out the fire in his abdomen, steady stream of air hissing past his teeth 'til he's empty.

"I know what you are asking of me. I know that you are tired... We all are. I know." He bends to pick at the stitches poking through the flesh of his foot.

"But every day we delay is a day that Braska can reconsider. A day that his resolve will waver. Don't you understand?"

Auron looks to the figure who gingerly dips his toes into the murky water, yards away at the riverbank.

"He wants to give Yuna a new world. To him, that is worth never seeing her again. You would do that, wouldn't you?" Auron's voice sounds gentler than ever, "For your boy, wouldn't you?"

 

“Crybaby wouldn't even get it.“ A dry chuckle. “We just need to keep him busy. Let him sleep, let him drink, let him laugh. Just until the rain starts, so he thinks about rain when he's walking and not about things ahead. Thinks about his guardians arguing about nothing at all, and still being at his side. But too much pressure and he'll break. He's not you.“  _ He's not me, either _ .

 

"Hm."  _ Dammit. Who knew the Zanarkander was such a skilled debater? Auron would side with him in an instant if the man just weren't so damn disagreeable. _

"...Perhaps you're right," he concedes with a sigh.  _ Even a broken clock is right twice a day, isn't that how it goes? _

"But don't think I'll be so easily swayed down the line. It's only going to get harder."  _ That's right. You'll have to face it, won't you? Taste for yourself that bitter pain. Listen to Jecht and let Braska enjoy his final days. _

"Now go, mustn't keep him waiting."

“Yup.“ The old man spares him any gestures of triumph and walks away, dirty fabric under his arm, the rest left on a clean stone. Auron sees him putting on his grin like others would an armor. Notices how he puts the usual spring into his step.  _ Nothing has happened. _

Sees him return to grab his sword, wordlessly.  _ And still, just in case... _

Then he's gone.

 

Oh, how he hates to be left with the bill. Auron feels a pang of regret somewhere inside. _ Is he... mad at me? _

 

"There you are, my knight in shining armor!" Braska dons considerably more modest swimwear than the musclebound monk. Gray shorts, with red lacing up the front and back, where the fabric is knotted tightly. He doesn't turn to face Jecht, simply throwing his head back to greet him before returning his attention to the water. From afar Braska cuts a rather dashing figure when he isn't cloaked in holy vestments. His body is soft and smooth in most parts, but for his shoulders and back, which are scaley and in a state of seemingly constant irritation. Red pockmarks dot the skin in a random array down to the middle back, where the flesh transitions to a silky white.

"It's been a while since I had a swim. Keep an eye on me, will you?"

 

“Sure thing, boss.“  _ That's what I'm here for. Even generally speaking.  _ He sits down at the bank, prepares for the second round of laundry, and the question is out of his mouth before he even decides if he wants to ask it.

“What's that shit on your back? Allergy to one of your layers? Or just your skin being a bastard?“ Nothing but interest in his voice.  _ Just a thing bodies do. _

"What, where?" Braska swivels around and slaps at his back, until his fingertips brush the scar tissue, "Oh, you mean this!"

 

He takes a more relaxed stance and lightly stretches the skin with his hand, the pits and creases now exposed more plainly.

"Childhood measels! Unfortunate stuff," his voice is inappropriately chipper. Braska wades waist deep into the water and bends to wet his hair.

"Oh, put that laundry down, come have a swim with me!"

“So it's okay to work on there? Got it.“ Jecht shrugs and follows the bossman's order. Off to the water with him, and off with his pants. “Tidus managed to catch chickenpox when he was three. Was almost impossible to keep him from scratching.“

 

He dives down, elegant shadow under the waves.  _ She put him in a bathtub full of oatmeal, but he wouldn't stop screaming until I threatened to drown him in the stuff. Not one of your proudest moments, buddy. _

 

"Olive leaves," Braska plainly says as he steps deeper into the lake. "Always how it was done in our village. Then again, my mother thought anything could be cured by leafy greens." A fond laugh as he recalls her ceaseless fussing. Wet mint over the eyelids as a headache remedy, bay leaves for an upset stomach. Sickness had a good flavor in those days, now it only tastes bitter and gray.

He  feels a frown pull at the corners of his mouth, so he quickly dips beneath the cool water, hot tears instantly vanish.

 

“Promised yourself to make everything better with your own kids?“ Jecht is drifting atop the surface like a log as he rises again, arms spread wide. “I sure did. Didn't work, of course, not as well as I wanted it to, and still...“

Braska chuckles warmly. "Well, the best laid plans, as the saying goes..."

He slicks his wet hair back, squeezing the water from the ends.  _ Let's change the subject. _

"So," he takes a long pause, turning to face shoreward, "what do you think of our oh-so-serious friend?"

 

“Folks at his temple weren't exactly the nicest guys around, were they? Never got a chance to see the world through a lens that wasn't what they beat into him.“  _ Not much room for weakness or mercy. Raised to fight. Why does that ring a bell? _

Jecht takes a mouthful of water, makes a little fountain with it just for his own amusement. Not a shark for a moment, but a whale.

Braska laughs into his hand.

 

"You have him  _ mostly  _ right." He sinks in the water 'til he's sitting on his knees, enjoying the sloshing waves that float his arms freely. "Though Auron didn't join the monastery until he was thirteen - it's customary in those parts you see, because of the high infant mortality rate," Braska's expression droops, "the people there need young boys to work the land."

 

A strange bird call echoes off the surface of the water, it's sharp and high before dipping to a long low note, then it repeats.

 

"So the ideas that he has about people, about Spira... they're only partly Yevonite dogma. He is simply..." he searches for the right words to say, "...like you, an intense personality."

"Intense personality..." Jecht spits. Laughs. "That sure is a nice way of saying it, gotta remember that."

_ That why you took us along, holy man? Saving morons not only in the end, but during your lifetime? Oh damn  it. Got something in my eye there. _

"So you want me to stop teasing him? Dunno if that's something I'll manage."  _ Even though I might try for you. _

"Oh, tease him all you like, he needs the mental exercise," Braska guffaws, wetting his hair again, smoothing it back again, pressing it as flat against his scalp as it will go.  _ Yes, perhaps that's it, that he prefers the company of lost souls to the high and mighty. Hadn't they all, those three, in some regard, lost favor with the temple? _

"I just thought I would say it, perhaps you had wondered if ... perhaps you wondered if he hates you."

 

The mighty Jecht looks into this impossibly blue sky, at clouds on a distant horizon, and becomes silent for a while. Chuckles, then.

"Of course he does. I'm his own worst case scenario. Would be strange if he embraced that, right?"

Braska knits his brows together and points his grimace shoreward.

 

"I'm sad you feel that way. He certainly isn't making it easy on either of us. If you can find it within yourself, though," Braska turns and his hand finds Jecht's shoulder, "have patience with him. The boy doesn't hate you, he just doesn't understand you."

"You do know that patience is my strong side, eh?" Words served with a grin the Zanarkander doesn't feel. "But he damn well adores the ground you walk on, and so..."

The  _...do I _ remains unspoken, true as it may be. This foolish, idealistic holy man touched something inside him he didn't even know he had, nor wanted to have. More than his own family ever managed, much as he tried. _ Maybe this is this whole nonsense about purpose and duty. Bah. _

"We'll manage, don't you worry, okay? Even if it means butting heads sometimes."

 

"Jecht..." the voice is so buttery, hand gripping the muscled shoulder with comfortable familiarity. "I'm glad to have you as my guardian. Thank you."

He pulls the other man into a tight hug, ear pressing to ear, though really, a hug can't fully express the deep affection he feels.  _ I'm so lucky to have you. Both of you. You fill these final days with… _

 

Those impossibly strong arms around him  hold him in a steady embrace, not willing to give way before he does.

"And now imagine..." Jecht whispers, "...the boy stumbling upon us like this. Think his head would explode?" A tiny chuckle, and the summoner knows he's trying to shoo the tears from his own voice.

"Oh-!" Braska smirks, recoiling and flicking the tip of his middle finger down the ball of his nose, a Yevonite shaming gesture which Jecht had long since become familiar with. "You are a devil, Jecht of Zanarkand! Tut tut."

 

"Lord Braska -- !" a faraway voice calls from the riverbank. It waits, and gains a tone of annoyance as it calls for Jecht.

 

"His ears must be burning," the summoner cackles, wrapping one arm over Jecht's shoulders before pushing him lightly forward.

"You stay here. I'm going."

And that he does, wet and naked and with his ridiculous sword over his shoulder, a god of wars rising from the waves, and with a spring in his step stemming from the little bounce his heart just made.

 


End file.
